


Covered in cowardice

by parsleylion



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Domestic Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 16:57:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12303504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parsleylion/pseuds/parsleylion
Summary: I can’t say I’m surprised. I mean it’s what violent alcoholics do, isn’t it?





	Covered in cowardice

“Mike? Can you feel your fingers?”

  
  


This is the first thing I ask you when I step inside our bedroom. It’s cold in here. The blinds are shut but the windows are wide open. I suppose that’s to get rid of the stench of alcohol and pot which you’ve tried to conceal with air freshener. You should know by now that it doesn’t work but you still do it. The fact that you have blood running down your arms and can’t stand in a straight line; the fact that I just walked in on you smashing my Fender against the wall in a fit of rage is enough to for me to figure out you’ve been drinking all day.

  
  


I can’t say I’m surprised. I mean it’s what violent alcoholics do, isn’t it?

  
  


They drink then they get angry and throw things about. Sometimes it’s me that gets thrown about. Today it’s my favourite guitar.

  
  


“No,” You finally answer me, staggering backwards until your knees hit the bed and you sit down.

  
  


I linger in the doorway, my eyes gazing around the darkened room. The bed sheets are on the floor half covering a multitude of your sins in the form of empty beer bottles and an ashtray which scatters its contents into the carpet. The photo frame above the bed has slipped and hangs from the wall at an angle, threatening to fall and shatter any second then there’s the pile of books torn and destroyed, their pages cascaded across the bed. My guitar can only be recognised from it’s splintered shards and crooked strings that spread from one end of the room to the other.

  
  


Taking a deep breath I walk over to you. You sit on the bed with your bloodied hands in your lap, tears meandering down your cheeks and before I’ve even reached you I know what’s coming next. It’s the same old routine with you, isn’t it?

  
  


Drink, smoke, shoot up, get angry, trash the house, apologise.

  
  


So I stop you before you can even open your mouth.

  
  


“Can you open your hand?” I ask.

  
  


You nod and slowly open your clenched fists. I’m pleased of the distraction of the wounded palms of your hands. It means I don’t have to hear you begging me to forgive you. It means I don’t have to think of anything for a few moments other than how much damage you’ve done to yourself.

  
  


You wince when I run my fingers across your hands, looking for any trace of my once beloved guitar. I remember a time when you crushed an empty bottle of Bud between these hands. How it took me hours to get all the tiny shards of glass from out of your skin. You cried and screamed and begged for me to stop. Now you’re barely making a sound other than the sharp intake of breath as I pull you to your feet.

  
  


“Where are we going?”

  
  


You look scared, brown eyes all wide and I hate myself for thinking that it serves you right because you scare me all the fucking time.

  
  


“Bathroom,” Comes my monosyllabic answer and I take you by the elbow, steer you through the mess on the floor and into the bathroom across the hallway.

  
  


You sit down on the toilet seat after I let go of you and I turn to the medicine cabinet. It’s always stocked up and if the local drug store did loyalty points I would have a fuck load. I even know the names of the cashiers who stand behind the till scanning and packing the boxes of band aids and bottles of ointment and wraps of gauze that I buy on a weekly basis. They probably think I work as a nurse.

  
  


“Brad?”

  
  


I look up in frustration from trying to find some cotton swabs when my name comes tumbling from your lips. The tears are starting. I know not to get too distracted by the tears, I mean three years of this and I should know better. Still, it’s hard.

  
  


“What?” I answer as coldly as I can, my fingers finding some ointment at the back of the cupboard. It still has blood on it from the last time I used it at the weekend after you lashed out at me and split my lip.

  
  


“I’m…”

  
  


“Come here,” I cut your sentence off, my hands turning on the faucets at the sink, “Hold your hands under this,” I tell you as you stand next to me.

  
  


“Brad I really am…”

  
  


I yank your hands and place them under the hot water, wincing on your behalf as the clear liquid runs red into the basin. A shot of steam rises into the air as I rub away the reddened mess from the palms of your hands.

  
  


“Here,” I turn the taps off and wrap your hands in a towel, hating the way you glare at me, “You think I’m enjoying this?” I snap.

  
  


You shrug.

  
  


I smile. A smile heavy with desperation and weariness.  _Not_  happiness.

  
  


“Sit down,” I tell you and for once you do as I say.

  
  


It’s funny really. I mean, most of the time I’m shaking or crying or avoiding you. It’s only when you’re coming down from your outbursts that I actually dare to take control. It’s the only time I’m only a little scared of you as appose to being utterly terrified.

  
  


I rub the ointment on to your cuts, ignoring your gulps and winces which dare I think it, you deserve. By the time I’ve wrapped bandage around your hands and rinsed the sink free of blood I catch you out of the corner of my eye. You look a pitiful state. All pale and empty; all black bags beneath eyes and chipped lips. I warned you that this is what drinking would do to you. Did you listen? No, I think you hit me instead.

  
  


Yes. It was my birthday, my twenty fifth birthday. We went out for a meal and when we came back I probably chose the most inappropriate time to quiz you on your drinking. See, you’d recently lost your job and were finding the knock backs and struggle to pay rent were taking their toll. You’d been addicted to amphetamines back in High School so it seemed only fitting that you took the easy way out again and started drinking to escape the fact you were upset and not really enjoying life. Me? I like to talk things over, get things off my chest. You? You like to drown your sorrows and pretend that everything is okay because you can’t handle not  _being_  okay.

  
  


So after a candlelit meal and your consumption of three bottles of wine I told you my concerns. I think that was the first big argument we’d ever had and when I close my eyes I can still feel the utter fear I was consumed by that night when you knocked me unconscious with your firsts.

  
  


Any normal, wise to the world person would have left you.

  
  


I couldn’t and for a collective of dwindling reasons, I still can’t.

  
  


Every time I see you like this; helpless and scared in the corner of our bathroom I can not think about the man who uses his fists or draws blood from my pounding heart with his hurtful words. All I can think about is getting you better; getting you back.

  
  


I never thought it would take over five years.

  
  


“Brad?”

  
  


I gulp and shake myself free from my thoughts. I have to be strong for you and that means not breaking down in tears over this again. Least not just now. I’ll wait until you’ve cried yourself to sleep before doing that.

  
  


“I’m going to clean up our room,” I tell you but your hand stops me from leaving the room.

  
  


I shudder when it brushes against me. I can’t help but flinch. And you can’t help but notice.

  
  


“I’m sorry,” You whisper. Your voice sounds so sincere and I stare back at you, met with these baby brown eyes that are fast welling up with tears.

  
  


“I have to clean up the mess,” I repeat, feeling cold when your hand slips from my arm because no matter how much it hurts when you touch me I still feel empty when you’re gone.

  
  


“Brad?”

  
  


I pause in the doorway, gazing out into the open bedroom door. Everything spills out; from the bloodied sheets to the torn books.

  
  


“What?” I sigh, my eyes still staring across the hallway.

  
  


“I’ll buy you a new guitar.”

  
  


I feel a tear escaping from behind my eye. It’s fast followed by another one then another until I have to leave the room as fast as my legs will physically carry me. I want to tell you that it’s not about the guitar that it’s about you and me and the way you’re ripping my heart further from my chest with everyday that passes by.

  
  


I want to tell you.

  
  


Only I can’t.

  
  


I guess I’m scared of your reaction. I guess I’m just like you really. I guess I’m a coward as well.

  
  


I guess I’ll still be doing this in another five years time.

  
  


Unless your fists kill me first.


End file.
